| Cruisin' the Past |
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| Cruisin’ the Past by Ed Dooley |
Hijinks and Escapades
A casual look at the faces of members of the senior class pictured in the 1960
TORCH seems to reveal a cohort of serious-minded students. And, for the most
part, we were. But below the surface – sometimes rising to the surface – was a
group sense of humor that was expressed in clever, creative hijinks and
escapades. Let’s call it the “Happy Days” side of high school in the 1950s. Most
of these amusing moments are lost to memory, as perhaps they should be. Still,
some remain in the oral traditions of the class, which is to say that they are
repeated and embellished whenever two or three are gathered together under the
correct circumstances. As I write this essay, three events come to mind.
The first involved international intrigue, or so we thought. We had heard that
Panama had an embassy located out in the desert in a compound surrounded by
barbed wire. A Panamanian embassy? In the desert near Tucson? It didn’t seem
plausible, and we decided to “check it out.” So one night a number of us drove out
to investigate this mysterious site, not knowing exactly where the entrance was or
what to expect. After wandering around the moonlit desert for some time and
seriously wounding ourselves on cactus and ocotillo plants, we finally came upon a
perimeter fence and brightly painted “No Trespassing” signs. As we peered
across the fence into the darkness trying to make out the distant buildings, we
were discovered, not by guards or electronic devices but by what sounded like a
howling pack of hungry wolves, and they were headed right our way. If we had not
already suffered from cactus thorns on coming into the area, we certainly did as
we ran for the safety of our cars. We never saw the dogs, we never saw the
embassy, and we weren’t even sure where we had been. It turns out that there
probably was a foreign compound in the area, not an embassy but a consulate. To
this day, Costa Rica maintains a consulate near Tucson, for trade purposes, and
perhaps Panama did, too. But you couldn’t prove it by us.
The second incident also had an international flavor to it: bull fighting. One day we
decided, who knows why, that we wanted to stage a bull fight, a real one. As for
the essential participants, someone located a bull and a herd of cows at the
University of Arizona farm out on Campbell Avenue. Next, we needed a
courageous matador. If memory serves right, the bull fighting idea originated with
Gerry LaBelle, editor of our newspaper and all-around leader, so it was natural that
he would step forward to face the beast. Bravo! As for spectators – the
aficionados – there was no lack thereof as dozens of our classmates heard of the
plan as word spread in the hall between classes. (One problem was that these
plans may also have been overheard by some of our teachers.) All that was left
was to dress our matador in a fitting costume. We could find no authentic
embroidered uniform and no little black hat with little mouse ears, but Emily Kittle
made a fine cape. There was, of course, no sword involved. The time for the
bullfight was set for one Friday evening, and on the appointed night carloads of
students converged on the U of A farm with the aim of shining their headlights on
the field, the bull, and Gerry (el matador!). Gerry donned Emily’s cape. Let the
games begin! What began was the arrival of a sheriff’s patrol car driven by an
officer who said, “Kids, I don’t think you really want to do this.” Of course we
agreed, and so we drove off, plan cancelled, but with Gerry still wearing his cape
and shouts of “Bravo! El matador!”
The third incident had little to do with international events, but it did involve the
otherworldly. No single person can be identified as the originator of the prank, but
once it was suggested there was no lack of willing participants. The plan was to
drive out one night to Evergreen Cemetery on Miracle Mile and there stage a
dramatic scene. Fort Lowell Road intersected the Miracle Mile directly across
from one of the entrances to the cemetery. Any cars coming down Fort Lowell had
to stop there and turn left or right, and for a moment, their headlights shone into the
cemetery. And it was at that location that we set up our dramatic prank.
The star of the show that night was Monte Clausen, a tall football player in the class
of 1959, who hid in the bushes until a car approached, and then walked stiff-
legged and stiff-armed out into the cemetery entrance like a Frankenstein
monster. With his height, his build, and his crewcut, Monte was a dead (pardon
the pun) ringer for old Frankenstein. The occupants of the cars, we imagined,
would have a fright, and then quickly go on their way. After startling a dozen or
more motorists, we decided to end the show. But then the real show began. A
couple of Tucson City Police cars, lights flashing, descended on the cemetery.
Officers got out and with bullhorns summoned us out of the cemetery. Some of us
tried to hide in the bushes or behind tombstones, but to no avail. Some went
walking nonchalantly down Miracle Mile only to be caught in the dragnet. Others
gave themselves up sheepishly. After a stern lecture reminding us that the
cemetery was off limits at night, and pointing out that what we were doing was
potentially dangerous (we could have frightened some driver out of his or her wits),
we were sent home with a warning. Another dumb idea. But Monte really did look
like Frankenstein that night.
I’m sure there are many more stories of hijinks and escapades because we were
a constantly scheming crowd. Maybe I should have included the one about a
group of us driving up to parked cars at the U of A at night with a phony flash
camera…. On the other hand, perhaps some of these stories are better left untold.
(Note: As usual, these Cruisin’ the Past essays will now take a break for summer.
They will continue in September when we look at parties, road trips, and picnics.
Your input, feedback, or comments are always welcomed.)
A casual look at the faces of members of the senior class pictured in the 1960
TORCH seems to reveal a cohort of serious-minded students. And, for the most
part, we were. But below the surface – sometimes rising to the surface – was a
group sense of humor that was expressed in clever, creative hijinks and
escapades. Let’s call it the “Happy Days” side of high school in the 1950s. Most
of these amusing moments are lost to memory, as perhaps they should be. Still,
some remain in the oral traditions of the class, which is to say that they are
repeated and embellished whenever two or three are gathered together under the
correct circumstances. As I write this essay, three events come to mind.
The first involved international intrigue, or so we thought. We had heard that
Panama had an embassy located out in the desert in a compound surrounded by
barbed wire. A Panamanian embassy? In the desert near Tucson? It didn’t seem
plausible, and we decided to “check it out.” So one night a number of us drove out
to investigate this mysterious site, not knowing exactly where the entrance was or
what to expect. After wandering around the moonlit desert for some time and
seriously wounding ourselves on cactus and ocotillo plants, we finally came upon a
perimeter fence and brightly painted “No Trespassing” signs. As we peered
across the fence into the darkness trying to make out the distant buildings, we
were discovered, not by guards or electronic devices but by what sounded like a
howling pack of hungry wolves, and they were headed right our way. If we had not
already suffered from cactus thorns on coming into the area, we certainly did as
we ran for the safety of our cars. We never saw the dogs, we never saw the
embassy, and we weren’t even sure where we had been. It turns out that there
probably was a foreign compound in the area, not an embassy but a consulate. To
this day, Costa Rica maintains a consulate near Tucson, for trade purposes, and
perhaps Panama did, too. But you couldn’t prove it by us.
The second incident also had an international flavor to it: bull fighting. One day we
decided, who knows why, that we wanted to stage a bull fight, a real one. As for
the essential participants, someone located a bull and a herd of cows at the
University of Arizona farm out on Campbell Avenue. Next, we needed a
courageous matador. If memory serves right, the bull fighting idea originated with
Gerry LaBelle, editor of our newspaper and all-around leader, so it was natural that
he would step forward to face the beast. Bravo! As for spectators – the
aficionados – there was no lack thereof as dozens of our classmates heard of the
plan as word spread in the hall between classes. (One problem was that these
plans may also have been overheard by some of our teachers.) All that was left
was to dress our matador in a fitting costume. We could find no authentic
embroidered uniform and no little black hat with little mouse ears, but Emily Kittle
made a fine cape. There was, of course, no sword involved. The time for the
bullfight was set for one Friday evening, and on the appointed night carloads of
students converged on the U of A farm with the aim of shining their headlights on
the field, the bull, and Gerry (el matador!). Gerry donned Emily’s cape. Let the
games begin! What began was the arrival of a sheriff’s patrol car driven by an
officer who said, “Kids, I don’t think you really want to do this.” Of course we
agreed, and so we drove off, plan cancelled, but with Gerry still wearing his cape
and shouts of “Bravo! El matador!”
The third incident had little to do with international events, but it did involve the
otherworldly. No single person can be identified as the originator of the prank, but
once it was suggested there was no lack of willing participants. The plan was to
drive out one night to Evergreen Cemetery on Miracle Mile and there stage a
dramatic scene. Fort Lowell Road intersected the Miracle Mile directly across
from one of the entrances to the cemetery. Any cars coming down Fort Lowell had
to stop there and turn left or right, and for a moment, their headlights shone into the
cemetery. And it was at that location that we set up our dramatic prank.
The star of the show that night was Monte Clausen, a tall football player in the class
of 1959, who hid in the bushes until a car approached, and then walked stiff-
legged and stiff-armed out into the cemetery entrance like a Frankenstein
monster. With his height, his build, and his crewcut, Monte was a dead (pardon
the pun) ringer for old Frankenstein. The occupants of the cars, we imagined,
would have a fright, and then quickly go on their way. After startling a dozen or
more motorists, we decided to end the show. But then the real show began. A
couple of Tucson City Police cars, lights flashing, descended on the cemetery.
Officers got out and with bullhorns summoned us out of the cemetery. Some of us
tried to hide in the bushes or behind tombstones, but to no avail. Some went
walking nonchalantly down Miracle Mile only to be caught in the dragnet. Others
gave themselves up sheepishly. After a stern lecture reminding us that the
cemetery was off limits at night, and pointing out that what we were doing was
potentially dangerous (we could have frightened some driver out of his or her wits),
we were sent home with a warning. Another dumb idea. But Monte really did look
like Frankenstein that night.
I’m sure there are many more stories of hijinks and escapades because we were
a constantly scheming crowd. Maybe I should have included the one about a
group of us driving up to parked cars at the U of A at night with a phony flash
camera…. On the other hand, perhaps some of these stories are better left untold.
(Note: As usual, these Cruisin’ the Past essays will now take a break for summer.
They will continue in September when we look at parties, road trips, and picnics.
Your input, feedback, or comments are always welcomed.)
| The Lonely Bull |
